


Constant

by rain_sleet_snow



Category: Mansfield Park - Jane Austen, Persuasion - Jane Austen
Genre: Art, F/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 05:23:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16298915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rain_sleet_snow/pseuds/rain_sleet_snow
Summary: In the spring of 1815, Anne Elliot meets her husband at the Royal Academy's salon.





	Constant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SecondStarOnTheLeft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/gifts).



> Mary Crawford's politics were inspired by AMarguerite! 
> 
> Please excuse any historical errors.

“I need not ask what is in that letter,” Mary Crawford said, eyeing Anne from the other side of the breakfast table. “Good heavens, Anne, you look eighteen again when you smile like that.”

 

Anne blushed, which she was sure only added to the impression, and folded her letter carefully. She hadn’t had a full letter from her husband for a month, and that last message had been largely illegible, due to the packet having, at some point, been dropped in seawater.

 

At least, it _mostly_ smelled of seawater.

 

“Frederick writes that he reached Plymouth yesterday and has just arrived in London – he must to the Admiralty for a few hours this morning, but afterwards he will be at liberty.” Anne glanced at the clock, and realised that it was nearly eleven; her heart beat a little faster.

 

“You will be with him in no time at all,” Mary’s sister Mrs. Grant smiled, setting down her novel and speaking for the first time that morning. Neither Crawford sister was fully awake prior to their first cup of coffee, though Mary (if she had not been to a soirée or ball and exhausted herself) rose so early that she was generally far in advance of Mrs. Grant. “And I must say I am highly impressed that he writes to you.”  


“Frederick Wentworth is a paragon of all the virtues,” Mary teased, helping herself to another slice of toast and getting crumbs on a well-thumbed copy of Phillis Wheatley’s poetry, “or at least I must always think him so for making Anne smile so much.”

 

Anne gave Mary a half-hearted censorious look. Mary had been sprightly and quick-tongued from the very first days of their acquaintance in at school – but she had never used her wit against Anne, and indeed had been (in her way) just as gentle as the far more maternal Harriet Smith. They had written to each other for a while after Mary had left school, but their correspondence had fallen off during the fog of misery that had overwhelmed Anne at nineteen, and Mary was not the sort to seek out a friendship with no return. She had, however, written to congratulate Anne when notice of Anne’s marriage to Captain Wentworth had appeared in the _Times_ , and though Lady Russell had cautioned Anne against the connection – some scandal, no longer news but not forgotten, involving Mary’s brother Henry and a society lady – Anne had been glad to be friends with Mary once more.

 

Especially when Mary had invited her up to London, to wait for Frederick’s imminent return: he would have to visit the Admiralty before returning home to Somerset, and this way she could be with him almost at once. It had been a more thoughtful gesture than Anne had expected from Mary Crawford of old, and Anne had enjoyed a quiet week in London, shopping, learning about Mary’s abolitionist politicking, executing commissions for Mrs. Croft and assorted Musgroves, and hearing music – not least from Mary herself, who had always had a certain talent on the harp and was now become quite proficient.

 

It had been a pleasant week, but more pleasant – far more pleasant – was the thought of seeing Frederick again, so very soon. Anne’s fingers were trembling on her letter; she felt like the needle of a compass, turning inexorably towards a lodestone.

 

“I did not have much to do with my uncle’s professional acquaintance,” Mrs Grant said, picking up her novel again and promptly smearing marmalade on the pages. “But if I am remembering Captain Wentworth correctly he was an extremely practical man. I expect he has suggested a meeting point.”  


“An assignation!” Mary said cheerfully. “How romantic! Only you _would_ go and spoil it by having an assignation with your lawfully wedded husband –“

 

“ _Mary_!” Anne exclaimed, laughing, and went to put on her pelisse and walking boots at random – so long as she was fully dressed and ready to leave at once, it hardly mattered to her if she had managed to pair pomona green with cerulean blue, odd-coloured boots and an old-fashioned capote, and her hands shook as she buttoned her pelisse without noticing its colour or style.

 

Fortunately, her maid was slightly more fastidious, and sent her out creditably attired. John, the manservant who had accompanied Anne and Lucy up to London from the Crofts’ home in Somerset – a former boatswain, highly practical and formidably organised - had recognised Captain Wentworth’s distinctive hand on the direction of Anne’s letter and had warned Lucy that the mistress would be wanting to go out immediately after breakfast. Anne couldn’t help smiling over that, either, or over Lucy’s poorly concealed romantic sighing; in fact, she did not stop smiling for a moment as she walked briskly out, attended by John, secured a hackney carriage, and made her way to the Royal Academy’s salon in the Strand.

 

John was not artistic, and approached the prospect of a trip to the Royal Academy with much the same fixed grimness that he had approached standing in the very back of a box at the theatre, or the musicale held by Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford a few days ago. Anne took pity on him and told him he could wait outside. She hardly waited to hear his agreement before hurrying indoors.

 

She knew exactly where Frederick would be, if he were already here. Frederick appreciated art, though it did not affect him as music did, and he preferred one painter over all others. One of Anne’s errands had been to a printmaker, for the latest volume of _Liber Studiorum_ , and the next instalment of _Picturesque Views on the Southern Coast of England_ ; they already had all those that had been published so far. William Turner exhibited at the Royal Academy almost every year, and his style was highly distinctive. Frederick said that he was the only painter who truly understood the sea, and Anne herself was drawn to his paintings. If she didn’t find Frederick where Mr Turner’s paintings were displayed, he would very quickly find her there.

 

Though she had intended to ask for direction to the appropriate gallery, the words never left her mouth: her eyes were pulled directly to the only person or thing in the salon that really concerned her. She recognised Frederick’s back, in the dark blue broadcloth and gold epaulettes of his uniform, with an almost electric shock. She had half-expected to see the black bicorne, too, but he had removed that and tucked it under his arm. His fair hair glowed in the sunlight filtering through the windows, and Anne felt unaccountably dizzy.

 

She swallowed it down, and joined him. He was frowning hard at a watercolour of a ship toiling its way around a large sandstone rock under louring grey clouds, and didn’t immediately notice her; she cleared her throat, and observed:

 

“One foot on sea and one on shore –”

 

He turned quickly, and his bright familiar smile took over his face and left her breathless. “But perfectly constant, thank you, Mrs. Wentworth.”

 

“I could never doubt you,” Anne said, smiling back in response and completely failing to register the indulgent smiles of a pair of solid matrons passing by. “What caught your attention so?”

 

“The painting,” Frederick said dryly. “It reminds me of the foul weather we’ve had this last week. Although fortunately we came in to Portsmouth, not Plymouth.”  


“And that is Plymouth?”  
  
“Plymouth Sound; the Mew Stone. He has captured it very well.” Frederick was not looking at the watercolour, but at Anne. His wishes played out across his face, and Anne choked back a laugh; instead of kissing him in the middle of the Royal Academy, she tucked her hand tightly into the crook of his elbow, and pressed as closely against his side as propriety might allow. She had forgotten how tall he was, and how broad his shoulders – or no, she had not forgotten, it was just that seeing him again after nearly a full year made everything seem overwhelming.

 

Frederick juggled with his hat a moment, evidently wishing to press his hand over hers, but since he had only two arms and nowhere to put the bicorne down this was an impossible desire. Anne leaned slightly into his shoulder, and he sighed and gave up the struggle, merely tucking his elbow as tightly against himself as possible, to pull her a little closer. A woman in a dark grey walking dress looked rather wistfully at them both, longing etched on her face, and then hurried past with her head turned so that her bonnet covered her expression.

 

“Has Mr. Turner exhibited much this year?” Anne asked, largely oblivious to the reactions of the viewing public.

 

“More than last year; two oil paintings and two watercolours.” Frederick paused. “There is also a Constable or two, if you are interested.”

 

“Perhaps another time,” Anne said. “I am more interested in hearing all my husband has to say for himself, after far too long away. I understand Sophie’s sufferings at Yarmouth much better now.”

 

“I wish you could have come with me,” Frederick said, staring at one of the Turner oils without apparently seeing much.

 

“I wish it too,” Anne said, “but Harriet is so little… I could not think it right to leave her.”  
  
“I know,” Frederick said, “and I agree with you, and, moreover –” he smiled down at her – “I know you will not be moved when you know yourself to be right.”

 

Anne fidgeted with her reticule, and pulled from it a small pencil sketch of a little girl smothering a harassed cat with affection. “Miss Isabella Musgrove grows quite accomplished – she drew this for me. It is a fine likeness.”

 

Frederick managed to compass both sketch and bicorne in his free hand, and stared at the picture with far greater concentration than he’d given any of Turner’s works. “She is grown so much,” he said, very quietly.

 

Anne leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “She asks after you regularly,” she said softly. “Edward tells her so many stories she declares she will run away and be a midshipman and sail on your ships always -”

 

“She is _two_. Well, two and a half.”

 

“I am interpreting.” Anne smiled. “She is very quick for her age, but I will admit, that is less her own wording and more my translation of some rather garbled remarks.”

 

“The Admiral had better not run on too much, or she shall run away to sea before she’s very much older.” Frederick folded up the sketch. “May I keep this?”

 

Anne nodded. It disappeared into a coat pocket.

 

“How are Edward and Sophy?” Frederick asked, manoeuvring them slowly towards the exit. They had stopped in front of a total of four paintings probably by Turner, though Anne remembered only the first, the one she had found Frederick in front of, and could not have named the subjects of the other three to save her life. Her attention had narrowed to the tiniest details; Frederick’s warmth against her side; the strength of his arm, separated from her by gloves and coat and shirt; the shine of his hair, the glint of his eyes, the familiar timbre and melody of his voice, and only incidentally the actual words he was saying.

  
“Well,” Anne replied, confusedly. “I do not know which of my letters you received – Sophy’s baby is a boy, they have called him Edward, Ned for everyday use – it was very hard on her, but she is well, now,  or I would not have left them. Harriet thinks it is very fine to have a cousin. The Admiral can hardly see his son for bursting with pride –”

 

“How messy,” Frederick said dryly, “though I can hardly blame him. No, I did receive that letter, but I think I must have missed at least one other.”

 

“Your last letter looked as if it had fallen off the dock at Portsmouth,” Anne said regretfully. “I dried it out, but to little effect – you will have to tell me what was in it.”

  
“I have all manner of things to tell you,” Frederick said, looking at her with that brightness in his eyes that never failed to make her pulse turn rapid. A maiden young enough to be a débutante in her first season sighed, and was sternly hushed by her mother.

 

John found them as they reached the Strand, summoned a hackney carriage, and took a seat on the outside with the jarvey. This was, of course, entirely to be expected, but John managed to make it look very pointed. Anne flushed, but Frederick ignored him, handing her ceremoniously into the carriage and taking a seat beside her as John instructed the jarvey to return to Mrs. Grant’s house.

 

Frederick immediately drew the curtains half-closed and pulled Anne onto his lap. Anne would have objected to this blatant impropriety, but she was too busy kissing him.

 

“I have missed you,” Frederick said roughly, chest heaving as if she had drawn away all his breath, “Anne, I have _missed_ you –”

 

“Do you think I do not know it?” Anne pressed her face into his neck and inhaled. He smelled like soap and coffee and, just faintly, sea-salt. “I have missed you likewise. Everything is – subdued, when you are not with me. Oh, you have crushed my bonnet.”

 

“To hell with your bonnet,” Frederick said, but straightened it nonetheless. “It interferes with my kissing you.”  


“I shall buy another more accommodating. Frederick! We must be almost there.”

 

Frederick did not loosen his grip on her waist, but looked into her eyes, seeing Anne knew not what. Whatever it was, it put the sweetest smile on his face.

  
“This friend of yours,” Frederick said. “Miss Crawford. Do you think she will mind if we make our excuses and retire to your room _very_ promptly?”

 

“I venture to think she will approve,” said Anne, and pressed herself close to kiss him again.

 

Mary laughed so hard Anne could hear her all the way up the stairs, but she also sent John over to the coaching inn to fetch Frederick’s gear without Anne even framing the request, so Anne forgave her.

 


End file.
